


When The Witnesses Are Gone

by sugartrash



Series: Break Sugar's Block [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Choking, Glove Kink, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Minor Leia Organa/Han Solo, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugartrash/pseuds/sugartrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han sees parts of Luke no one else can. Who knew glove kink was a thing?  Post-Endor, between things, Luke and Han have a tryst that redefines the power balance between them. </p><p>I have writer's block again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Witnesses Are Gone

After Bespin, Luke wears a glove on his right hand more often than not, black and supple. Han remembers the boy in white on Tatooine, dressed in innocence and rough homespun. Sometimes, from the right angle, Luke is that boy again. Then perspective creeps in and he is all in black, soft black, down to the glove, with only his face and his throat and his left hand bare.

The left hand is the past, say the old wives. Which old wives? All old wives. The past is bare, the future shrouded in black and silence. Luke flexes that right hand when no one is looking, no one but Han. He catches Han’s eyes on him and he grins a little, sheepishly, like the boy from Tatooine.

Han is no one, when it comes to hiding things, and that is an odd compliment. To be unseen and seeing at the same time. Chewie notices. _You knew him before_.

Before what? Before all of this, Han supposes, when Luke’s feet didn’t know the ground of any other world. When the bonds on him were those of love and parents and youth and not responsibility and pain and power. Luke’s bare hand twines with his gloved hand behind his back, as though he is trying to wring pain out of it.

Han puts his hand on both at once, before he knows it, stilling them.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

They can see each other in the curved window separating them from space. Even with the distortion, there are no secrets between them. Space is black like the glove, black and full of secrets. Glancing down, Han sees the pulse flutter under the fading tan on Luke’s throat.

“But that’s not it.”

“No.” Luke is still staring out into the dark as though he’s not afraid of anything out there. Maybe what’s in his head is worse. He almost never blinks, it’s unnerving. He seems something other than mortal these days and Han, Han is as ordinary next to Luke as soil is to the stars that keep Luke’s mind from gnawing on itself.

Luke’s fingers close around Han’s hand, reminding him where it is. He should move it, he should move, but he’s caught between the past and those secrets under the glove, unwilling to let go.

“Gonna tell me, kid?” Han tries to put the distance of their years between them but it doesn’t work the way it did. He lost time when he was frozen, Luke lost his youth, and so Luke just laughs at him. Not the way he used to, just an exhalation and a heave of his shoulders that says he knows what Han is doing.

“No. You? Any freezer burn?” When Han meets the reflection of Luke’s eyes again, there’s a flash of light there that doesn’t belong to the stars. Humour. A gift of something closer to normal. This is what they have to talk about, the ways in which this thing has hurt them. The true scars begin to show in conversation, which would explain why they do so little of it.

Han takes the opening, regardless. “Hard to tell. I’ve taken it all for a test run or two. No complaints, but then again. Maybe your sister’s just being polite.” Crude is good. Basic, like soil. It’s his place in things. Ground to stand on. Luke’s place is written in his name. The sky. The stars. “I figured you’d tell me if I was slacking.”

“Hadn’t noticed.” Luke’s hands slide away, leaving Han’s hand cold. The other is already limp and clammy at his side with no blaster to rest it on. “You were kind of a slacker before, Han, if we’re being honest.” There’s the smart mouth and the attitude Han remembers. Both Luke’s hands curl around the window rail when he leans against it, facing Han.

“Hey, when did I ever let you down?” This, Han can do. He can be like the glove, covering things that hurt that neither of them want to say.

“Never.” Luke’s expression softens and grows old at once, there’s a bit of Kenobi around his eyes and it’s not heritage, it’s something else. “You never will.”

“You know that for sure? You want to tell your sister?”

The gloved hand flexes, Luke’s eyes slide away. “I’m sure.” He looks through the ship they’re riding between worlds, through everything and into a place Han can’t see. “You won’t let me down.”

Twin wires tighten around Han’s throat and heart at once, drag him closer—he feels closer even though his feet don’t move—to Luke. “Just you?”

“Just me.” Luke’s gaze returns to Han, full of apologies. “Sorry.” He puts that gloved hand to Han’s skin, thumb on Han’s throat, fingers on his jaw.

“I’ll take it.” It wasn’t as though Han planned to go through life never letting anybody down. Hell, he let Chewie down at least three times a day, if you listened to the Wookie.

The apologies drain out of Luke’s eyes as he studies Han’s face. The lines around the eyes fade, the corners of his mouth curl—barely enough to see, but Han sees. That’s another truth he’s allowed to see that no one else does, because he’s no one when it comes to hiding things. Something between them makes Luke happy in a way nothing else does. He’s about to ask Luke how he knows for sure, how he knows Han is going to let Leia down, when Han presses his lips to the fingertips of Luke’s glove as Luke touches his mouth.

Oh. That’s how. That and other ways, because Han is who he is.

“She knows,” Luke says, as though it should be soothing. Maybe it is, a little, to know that Han’s failure is already written into the contract he’s made with her.

“How?” Han’s breath leaves the glove damp. It feels almost like lips when he kisses it again. Those intangible wires around his heart and his throat lead down to the ground at Luke’s feet and they tighten until his knees go weak.

“She knew before I did.” Luke shifts his hand and the palm of the glove seals off Han’s mouth now, thumb hooked under his jaw. “I would have told her anyway.”

Han yields to the glove, to the inevitable future hidden in it—the future now, seconds from now, when he gives in to all this—and lets the wires take him to his knees. The shifting of his clothing as he kneels tells him he’s turned on but this doesn’t feel like sex the way he usually has sex. This is sex from the inside out. His body is only echoing the feeling in his gut and under his skin, the rising need to surrender.

When they talk about Luke these days, some people whisper the word _Master. Jedi Master_. Han can’t imagine the boy from Tatooine being master of lacing his own boots but now, this man under the soft black, under the glove—this man could carry the word. Another secret hiding under that glove. Han kisses the palm of it when he looks up into the sky of Luke’s eyes. This is where they should be, him on the ground and Luke over him and nothing but the truth between them.

“You’re not doing this to me.” The words are muffled but clear, not lost to the leather. Statement, not question. He trusts Luke. He doesn’t trust the Force, but he trusts Luke.

“I wouldn’t.” The flash of hurt in Luke’s face tells Han that Luke doesn’t trust himself as much as Han does. The glove is gone but Han catches the bare hand before Luke can turn away.

“I know.” Han kisses the bare palm, curls his tongue along the lines and scars of it until he hears Luke’s breath shake and the gloved hand snakes into his hair. Luke tastes like Han remembers from those brief moments, embraces when his lips brushed skin or he inhaled a lock of golden hair while laughing, leaving it dark and damp. “I trust you.”

It’s too easy to forget to say things aloud to Luke, too easy to assume he knows things since sometimes it feels like he knows everything. Han worships that bare hand, kisses the boy he probably should have kissed—when? there was no time—years before, sucks each finger wet and shameless until he can smell Luke’s arousal.

He’s rewarded by Luke gripping his hair with the saliva-slick bare hand and pushing two fingers of the glove into Han’s mouth. Han whines, there are no secrets here, and rubs his erection under his fly with one hand while he does the same to Luke with the other. It’s hard to tell them apart. They’re joined by Luke’s fingers down his throat, his teeth locked over Luke’s knuckles, his need to breathe and his gag reflex warring with his need as he refuses to stop trying to swallow Luke down.

The bare palm cracks Han’s cheek, shakes him loose, then the gloved fingers hook the front teeth of his lower jaw, forcing his mouth open and pulling him forward at once. His eyes are closed—he spent so long in the dark, it was so cold there—so he forces them open to see Luke’s face. Flushed, hot like the sun, the eyes like blue fire, aroused and focused—masterful—at once. Yes, that word suits him.

Luke’s cock tastes like salt and heat, warms Han from the inside out as Luke takes his open mouth, robbing him of the leather but giving him flesh instead. The bare hand twists in Han’s hair to control him, the gloved hand strokes Han’s cheek with incongruous tenderness. Han gags on his own saliva, swallows as Luke pulls out, leans in the moment he has air again.

 _Patience_. The hand in his hair tightens, the warm wires from his heart and throat wrap around him like Luke’s arms, to steady him without restraining. The carbonite was hell and this is heaven, to be held still in a grasp that frees him from himself.

Han sags into the bonds he can’t see, trusts Luke to hold him up even as Luke steals his breath with every thrust. There’s no fear. Air will come again when Luke gives it back to him. He’s caught between the bare boy and the shrouded master, allowed to see both and touch both, useful to and used by them.

“Han.” The word is little more than an exhalation. Statement, not question, not plea. Han is. Here and now, not past or future. Luke goes taut, the hand in Han’s hair loosens, the gloved hand clenches on Han’s shoulder for support as semen spills over Han’s tongue. Han gathers up his strength, supports himself so he can support Luke in turn. _You won’t let me down_.

Luke doubles over, both his hands crumple the fabric of Han’s shirt at the shoulders as he holds on. Han finds his own hands limp on his thighs, reaches up to circles Luke’s wrists gently with his fingers like shackles. Luke allows it for a heart beat, for two, before he straightens. Han lets him go, lets Luke draw him up by the shoulders and push him back against the window.

There are no kisses, just Luke’s bare hand against Han’s throat, and that is better because he can see Luke’s flushed face like this. It feels like victory, even though he’s pinned and aching. He grabs the rail behind him for support, to keep his hands still, and Luke rewards him by unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning him, unzipping his fly.

Luke doesn’t ask before taking Han’s cock in his gloved hand. The damp leather is less gentle than a bare hand would be and Luke is ruthless. Each tight stroke and cruel twist at the top make Han shake until what little dignity he has fragments into cries of pleasure and pleas for more. Luke leans into him, the hand on his throat is placed with care so that his vision blurs to shadow at the edges as though space is creeping in around him.

When Han comes, he is aware of the warm wires holding him up through the rush of pleasure and then, when he can’t bear Luke’s touch a moment longer, he’s allowed to sink to his knees.

“Han.” Luke’s fingers are soft on his cheek, Luke’s voice is soft in his ears. Han opens his eyes—when did he close them?—to see the gloved hand extended. His semen is beaded and streaked, white and wet, across the black leather.

Han takes Luke’s gloved hand in both of his and cleans it, as carefully as if it were flesh, with his tongue. His head is full of the smell of both of them now, his bones feel warm for the first time since Bespin. When he lets his head fall forward against Luke’s hip, Luke strokes his hair with both hands.

“You won’t ever let me down,” Luke says again.

Han believes him. “I know.”


End file.
